Page 24 of Promised to the Heir

Her thumb strokes the ridge of my knuckles, absentminded, as if the motion helps her think.

“When my mom left, he said it was her fault. That she didn’t have faith in him. He was already in debt back then, though I didn’t know it.” She shifts in the seat, turning her face toward the windshield. “She’s in New Zealand now. Husband number three or four, I’ve lost count. She stopped replying to my messages a few years ago.”

Her voice wavers, not enough to break, just enough to show how much it still stings.

“I kept sending updates about the factory, birthdays, whatever. Then one day I realized I was the only one writing. So I stopped.”

Wind rushes through the cracked window, carrying the scent of pine and asphalt. I want to say something, anything, but nothing feels right. She’s not asking for comfort; she’s purging.

“My dad’s worse now,” she says. “Online betting made it easy. He doesn’t even need to leave the couch. Baseball, elections, rainfall totals, he’ll gamble on anything that moves.”

She lets out a short laugh that breaks halfway through, the sound catching on itself before fading. “And when he loses, which he always does, he comes to me. Says it’s just a loan, that he’ll pay me back once he wins big. But he never does. I tell myself no, but then I picture him desperate, and I feel like a bitch.” She turns her face to the window again. “What kind of daughter lets her father sink like that?”

I lift our joined hands to my mouth and brush a kiss over her knuckles. “The kind who’s been carrying the weight he should’ve shouldered himself.”

Her breath catches, a soft, uneven sound. She doesn’t look at me, but her fingers tighten around mine.

For a while, we drive in silence again. The road stretches ahead, long and straight, sun flashing between the trees. I keep her hand in mine, thumb tracing the faint pulse beneath her skin, hoping she feels what I can’t quite say: that she’s not alone in this, that some weights don’t have to be carried alone anymore.

CHAPTER 12

Jeremy

By the time we reach her driveway, the sky has gone the color of bruised lilac, soft and heavy with the promise of night. I kill the engine and listen to the ticking of cooling metal. The air smells faintly of cut grass and rain brewing. She’s quiet beside me, and her fingers trace the seam of her jeans.

I want to ask what she’s thinking. I don’t.

I unbuckle and step out, the gravel crunching under my boots. The passenger door waits for me to do the right thing, so I round the hood and open it. She blinks up at me, the hint of a smile tugging her mouth.

“I can get out of a car by myself.”

“I know you can.” I arch an eyebrow, curious if she’ll make it a challenge.

She doesn’t. Instead, she slips her hand into mine and steps out, warm fingers twining with mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The porch light springs to life when we approach. Her hair catches it, strands gleaming like copper. For a heartbeat, I imagine this light spilling across both of us every night.

She gives my hand a small tug toward the house. “Come on.”

The porch light flickers once, then steadies. The place looks solid in the half-dark with its brick foundation and clean lines. It’s the kind of house built to last. I wonder how she feels walking back in here after everything with her father. Does it still feel like home, or just another thing she’s keeping upright out of habit?

I don’t ask. She’s had enough for one day.

It’s a good house, though. Big enough for two. Maybe for more, if life ever takes us there. I catch myself picturing it—coffee on the porch, papers scattered across the kitchen table, her shoes kicked off by the door—and file that thought away before it shows on my face. Add it to the growing list in my head: talk about her father, talk about her future, talk about us.

There’s a lot to build. But first, tonight.

She unlocks the door and steps inside, still holding my hand like she’s afraid to let go.

“I’m tired.” She squeezes my fingers and inhales like she’s been holding her breath.

I pull her against me and melt a little inside when she cuddles against my chest.

I admire her when she’s all business like at work, I like her all warm and interested when she interacts with my grandparents, I adore how patient and understanding she was with my mom, but I love when she’s like this. She’s allowing herself to lean on me, trusting me to hold her, and I think that’s as much metaphorically as physically.

She sighs against my chest, and I don’t care we’re standing in a hallway, and that we’re fully clothed. If she needs it, I’ll happily hold her for hours. So, I stand, stroke her back and carry her weight.

I don’t know how long we stand like this, but eventually she leans back and stares up at me. “Thanks.”